Re: Capital: Misha/Damian/Jason
That Misha dipped against him seemed a good sign to Damian, who was still very much novice at the emotions of others (and himself), though he would never say as much. This was all very new, made all the more so by the change of environment, private to public to audience, bedroom to café. There were several variables. To find the transgressor took the man a moment—which was likely more than he ought have taken, but he could not change that. He knew the medications were taking more of a toll on Misha with every passing week, and that, along with everything else, certainly hindered clarity. Worry always hindered clarity.
Misha tipped his head to dark-covered shoulder, so Damian shifted just enough that he might settle his own against the angel's, fine, straight blond claimed by coarser brown. This was comfortable. Tension lived in Damian loosely, which perhaps seems an incompatibility, but it is not so. He had been traIned over his lifetime to handle his alertness and that tension, so that they did not rise to the forefront or betray him through tautness. Yet even that seemed to ease from its easement, a touch, as the man allowed his hand to be taken, guided, and looked upon.
The angel was correct on the count of the caveat. Damian had opened his mouth but a centimeter, when he snapped teeth together with an annoyed breath through the nose to signal that he had heard Misha, even if he hadn't wanted to. His gaze was sideways to catch scour-blue and that crack of a smile. He rolled his eyes, but he lifted his head an inch, perhaps two, when Misha looked up from his inspection of Damian's hand. He was vey pleased with the smile that began. Relieved, even, he found with some disgust. He squeezed pallid fingers and corrected himself with a tut. "I believe you are but fussed." He smiled, the trace of teasing in the flatline of his voice.
He settled his head back on blond, and his gaze followed Misha's out into the room. A dim, uninteresting scene in a dim, uninteresting café. Another tut said Damian heard the boy he leaned against, but that to argue the point was beneath him. Yes. He lifted himself and slid down more when Misha's knee looped his, and, with more of his weight, he tipped against the thin boy, his eyes finding Woods at the bar coolly. "He was resurrected," Damian informed Misha without fanfare. To him, this was mundane. He lifted joined hands to rub his cheek against knuckles, an action he hopefully would not think back on, as he would despise himself for it. "A Lazarus Pit. Do you know of them?"